


Never Finished Paying for My Ride

by octopussy (deannawincester)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Bullying, Canon-Typical Alcoholism, Case Fic, Child Neglect, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Teacher-Student Relationship, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Season 1, Slurs, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deannawincester/pseuds/octopussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never occurred to the Winchesters to care what house Venus is in or what their horoscope predicts for the week, but when a series of bodies show up in Stanton, Virginia with their astrological signs tattooed on their foreheads, delving into the mysteries of the stars may be the only chance the boys have of making it back out of Virginia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Finished Paying for My Ride

**Author's Note:**

> 2013 Reverse Bang. Art by glasslogic, found [here](http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/44999.html). Still unbetaed and not entirely finished, but reposted by request!
> 
> Fic takes place between 1x11 “Scarecrow” and 1x12 “Faith.”
> 
> Title from Led Zeppelin’s “Night Flight”: “I just jumped a train that never stops, / So now somehow I know I never finished payin' for my ride / Just n' someone pushed a gun into my hand / Tell me I'm the type of man to fight the fight that I'll require.”
> 
> In addition to the tags above, there's also one tiny reference to Dean participating in pony play with a girl. Just. So you know.

The first time they kissed, they were sitting out on the hood of the Impala under a sky full of stars brighter than any either of them had ever seen. It was warm out and nearly silent in the high, dry California desert that looked like a generic set for a John Wayne movie during the day and turned into a stunning celestial display as the sun began to set over the mountains—the smog from Los Angeles leafing the edge of every cloud gold—and the stars, God, had there always been so many?

Even years later, they remembered it almost exactly the same, though they had not talked about it since it happened.

Maybe Dean remembered Sam's enthusiasm as he recounted the legends of the constellations above them—seemingly right above them—in more detail. Maybe on a clear night when the stars were bright (though they were never as bright as that night again), he could recall word-for-word Sam's retelling of the story of Andromeda, set out to be sacrificed to a horrific sea monster by her very own father, and her rescuer Perseus who used the head of the Gorgon Medusa to turn the monster to stone. 

Maybe it still pained him a little to hear in Sam's phrasing the accusation that John had exposed Sam to the appetites of so many monsters, leaving Dean to swoop in on his winged sandals and turn them to stone, spiriting Sam out of their clutches just in time.

Maybe Sam remembered how the silence of the night had pressed in close once the car's engine cooled better than Dean did. Maybe, when he closed his eyes, he could remember exactly how it felt to be up against Dean—not for warmth or for comfort, but simply to be touching. How it seemed in that moment that they could have been the only two people in all of existence. Just the two of them under the incredible array of stars that stretched into eternity in all directions above them.

But they remembered the kiss the same way. The shifting as they hitched themselves back up the hood of the Impala, the slope impossible to sit on without eventually sliding down, and ending up closer together than before. Closer than either of them intended. And how it seemed right, under that sea of stars, so close to earth, that Dean cup Sam's face in his hand, that Sam reach inside Dean's leather jacket and latch onto Dean's shirt, feeling his heartbeat beneath it, that they kiss and kiss, long and sweet and slow until they both had to pull back to breathe and press their foreheads together because they didn't need to look each other in the eyes to know that, in that moment, they were feeling exactly the same thing.

They had not touched since El Paso.

It was quite a feat—two grown men packed onto the bench seat of the Impala for the twenty-seven hour drive to Stanton, Virginia without so much as brushing against each other. But they'd had so much practice: first on John's insistence that they share the backseat without bothering each other, then in the awkward dance of trying to determine how much physical affection was normal between teenage boys and how much would send up red flags.

They hadn't touched after Jess died either, but that was different.

Sam hadn't touched anyone then. Once Dean reached out and pulled him from the fire begun above the only bed he'd shared with someone who wasn't Dean, that was it. When Dean had saved him for the umpteenth time. When Sam had realized it was the first time he didn't want to be saved .

Sam was too aware of everything Dean's hands had given and even more acutely aware of what he had missed, had forsaken, had sacrificed for the simple touch of Dean's hands. And Dean, so often the instigator, held back waiting for Sam to give him bearings, let him know where they stood.

And Sam had not intended to touch again, consigning himself to this half life where everything hurt, but nothing could be made to hurt worse because he would not let it.

But it came back like riding a bike: Dean stroking Sam's cheek, Sam crowding Dean against a wall, a clap on the back, a poke, a pinch, a light-hearted punch, a skillful checkup performed solely by touch; both of them holding back, afraid of what would happen if they became what they had once been. What they had been before Stanford, before Jess, before oceans stretched wide between them, blinding in the sunlight and unfathomably dark by night.

Until El Paso.

Which is why they passed the two and a half hours between the shitty El Paso motel that they stumbled out of like they'd been drunk as fuck the night before instead of just fucked and Socorro, New Mexico in complete silence, perpetuating the time-honored Winchester tradition of not talking about things until the only way to talk about it was spitting blood and insults.

The silence was broken as they passed the list of fast food joints on the Socorro exit by an altogether too-cheerful whistle from Sam's phone. Sam checked the message, smiled slightly, and texted back, keys clicking loudly even with Metallica thudding in the Impala's speakers.

Dean wasn't going to ask. He really wasn't and he wouldn't have except Sam got an almost immediate reply and responded with another hasty message and an honest-to-God grin.

At any other point in their lives--any point before Sam lost Jess--Dean would've jostled Sam with his elbow, asked, "Got yourself a girl, Sammy?" but as things were Dean didn't dare touch him and knew Sam'd kick his ass if he called him Sammy. So he asked, "Who's that?"

Sam's face changed between looking at his phone--sweet smile, dimples deep--and facing Dean--no emotion, like Sam was gone, a vacancy sign along a quiet highway.

"Missouri," his voice scratched like tree branches on Baby's roof, like it always had when he hadn't spoken for a couple hours (or had been fucked until he screamed the night before).

"Since when are you two penpals?"

Sam made a face, but there was nothing real behind it, vacancy light still lit, still going through the expected little brother exasperation. "She's got a case for us."

"A case?"

"Yeah, Dean, a case."

At any other point in their lives--any point before Sam left every remnant of Dean he could bear to let go in the hope of finding something safer--Sam would've elaborated, would've "You know, monsters? Vengeful spirits?," would've imitated Dean or John, but as things were he just read the text. "Stanton, Virginia. Ritualistic deaths spanning three months. Sigils cut into the victims' foreheads, cuts filled with some kind of ink-"

"They're marked on their foreheads? How do we know this is our kind of weird and not just some freaky cult thing?"

"What cult has ever-"

"The mark of the beast is on a dude’s forehead, right?"

Sam almost asked how Dean knew that since the extent of Dean's Bible study had taken place on his knees, head under the teacher's skirt when they were enrolled in a Catholic school for two months, but another whistle from his phone distracted him.

"She says to trust her,"

"Why'd you tell her I said anything-"

"Dean. Psychic."

"Right, ok." Dean still, squinting at the road like he was trying to figure something out. "Virginia, huh?"

"Southern Virginia."

"She couldn't have told us this while we were still in Indiana? Hell, while we were still on that side of the country?"

The next text arrived before Dean had even finished speaking.

Sam's smile was audible. "She says not to sass her."

"That's fucking creepy, dude."

"Watch your language."

Dean shot Sam a glance. "Since when have you given a shit if I-"

Sam held up his phone. The latest text read: Boy, don't make me wash your mouth out.

Dean huffed a laugh. "Right. All right. Lunch, then on to Vermont."

Both Sam and Missouri knew Dean too well to give him the satisfaction of correcting him.

They ate lunch sitting across from each other in the booth, carefully avoiding eye contact, hyper aware of the gazes that fell on them, wondering how much Missouri had seen, how much she could see. How much she knew about them and the chasm between them. How much she knew about El Paso.

They tried not to think about it--afraid Missouri could pluck the thoughts from their heads like apples from a tree--but they both did.

Dean flirted with the waitress--Bethany--and thought about how they hadn’t said each other’s names, not once, from the moment he’d reached up and snarled his fingers in Sam’s hair, pulled him down into a wet kiss until they were gasping and sticky with each other. As if, in the dark, if they didn’t say each other’s names they could be any two people. Like they weren’t men, like they weren’t brothers, like the years and the women and the distance didn't matter.

He said Bethany’s name over and over as if saying it cleansed his tongue of the times he should said Sam’s name, would’ve whispered Sam’s name, could’ve gasped and shook and cried out, invoking Sam’s name. As if Bethany and her sweet smile and her plain name could make him forget that he knew the taste of Sam’s name and body better than any brother had business to.

Sam rubbed his palms on his jeans and tried to ignore the grating sound of Dean saying, “Bethany, honey,” the way he should only say, “Sammy, God, Sam,” to some success, but only due to his having no luck whatsoever in ignoring how the touch-memory of scrubbing his palms against his jeans called up the rasp of his jeans against Dean’s.

He closed his eyes and heard the more welcome noise of Dean swearing at his button fly, tearing at it until he could press bare against Sam. At one time Sam would have teased, would have poked fun at Dean's attachment to button flies, refusing to come into the modern age where undoing your pants wasn't a chore. But he had just pressed back against Dean, both of them sucking in a breath like it hurt, Sam's jeans and boxerbriefs pulled down under the curve of his ass, Dean's jeans not even down that far, zipper teeth snagging painfully, rubbing together until their muscles seized and they could no longer do anything but gasp, resisting the urge to call out each other’s names.

Dean tried to call John about ten hours into the drive. It was dark, and Dean didn’t try to explain to Sam--they still weren’t talking--but Sam knew who he was hoping would pick up.

When it went straight to voicemail Dean snapped his phone closed and chucked it into Sam’s footwell.

“Nothing,” Dean pressed a fist to his mouth like he always did when he was feeling emotions too intense to fall under a single category, when he could hit someone or cry or drink himself stupid, then returning it to the wheel.

"Did you really expect him to answer?"

Dean didn't look at him.

They drove through the night and stopped for breakfast on the border of Oklahoma and Arkansas as the little town was just waking up.

Dean still wouldn’t look at Sam. All he said was, "Get me some pie," and Sam went to get food from a diner that should have looked retro, but instead just looked old, while Dean filled the Impala's tank.

Once Sam sucked Dean off while he was driving. Sam remembered that they were on their way from Maine to Nebraska, Dean just remembered that they were pretty far east. Exact location had never held as much significance for him as it had for Sam.

The highway'd stretched endless and empty in front of them and Sam was trying to prove a point. They both remembered that, but they remembered the actual event very differently.

Sam remembered that he was pissed off and needed to talk about it. He needed Dean to acknowledge the betrayal he was feeling in the wake of Dean’s latest romantic infraction. Sam remembered her name: Ashley. She was tiny, curvy, full, soft in a way he could never hope to be. He never knew if Dean had fucked her, but that didn’t really matter. What mattered was that they’d been fucking since Sam was sixteen and messing around for longer and Dean still didn’t see anything wrong with rubbing up against the Ashleys of the world, whispering sweet like he never did to Sam, touching them in broad daylight the way he would never be able to touch Sam.

Sam remembered that they’d driven in absolute silence because the Impala’s radio needed some tweaking. He remembered the quiet weighing on his chest so heavy he couldn’t breathe and reaching over the front seat, rubbing along the seam of Dean’s jeans, tugging his button fly open and taking him right there on the highway.

Sam remembered that it hadn’t solved anything. He never knew why, had never figured out exactly what had fouled up his brilliant plan.

Dean didn’t remember that there had even been a tiny, soft Ashley that he’d touched in ways that made Sam burn angry and jealous. He didn’t remember that they hadn’t been talking or that the radio hadn’t been blasting “Hair of the Dog” like it so often was.

He did remember Sam leaning across the expanse of the front seat, pulling his soft cock out, and deep throating him right there on the open road. He remembered trying to stay between the lines as he hardened and failing. He remembered grabbing at Sam, hips jerking involuntarily.

He remembered pulling Sam’s hair, forcing Sam to take him deep, then deeper. He remembered how Sam just took it, so fucking good. He remembered realizing that this would mark the first time he’d come from being blown in the front seat of the car, instead of the back. But it hadn’t because he didn’t come.

A truck passed them, a beater with a great engine under its rust spots. A truck just like John drove. And Dean remembered turning ice cold, cock gone soft; swerving off the road and parking the car, shoving Sam off him, telling Sam he couldn’t do things like that because it was too dangerous.

Sam never saw it, but even after the truck was gone along with its unsuspecting driver, even after they’d pulled off to the side and safely parked the car Dean wouldn’t let Sam finish. Wouldn’t let Sam touch him.

Dean remembered being terrified that no matter where they were, no matter where John was, he wasn’t safe to touch Sam. Not safe to tuck stray hair behind an ear for fear of someone suspecting, not safe to catch Sam when he stumbled in case his hand grazed Sam’s ass, not safe to hug him or pat him on the shoulder or look at him too long or kiss him because John might see, might find out.

When the scenery changed to the rolling green hills of the Appalachian mountains, they both remembered. But they didn’t talk about it.

They arrived in Stanton early that afternoon and retrieved the case files under the guise of FBI agents, working together like a well oiled machine, just like they always had, like they always did, their movements completely in sync, in spite of not having spoken to each other for upward of twelve hours. In spite of having fucked less than forty-eight hours before.

Of the victims’ families, two of the four that were actually willing and available to be interviewed were only a few streets over from their motel. The others lived in the neighboring towns.

Sam, who had called the families to arrange the interviews, gave Dean the shortest overview he could without Dean going in entirely blind: "Two of the first victims--Tim Rhodes and Keith Addams--were found together. They grew up on the same street, they'd dated for years, and they planned to get married in a few months. The police labeled their deaths a double suicide. We'll talk to Rhodes' parents first, the Addams family should be back by the time we finish the interview."

Dean forgot for a moment that they weren't speaking, hummed the tune of the the Addams Family theme song, and snapped his fingers, looking over for Sam to laugh or call him twelve. Sam didn't even put on a Bitchface; he didn't look up from the Rhodes-Addams case file.

The Rhodes welcomed them into a small house, painted faded yellow and sat them both on a too-short sofa.

Sam asked them if they’d noticed anything strange about their son’s behavior before his death and Tim Rhodes’ father answered with a sermon on the evils of the Addams’ family and their godless faggot son who’d seduced Tim, who’d pulled him away from his family, who’d yanked him out of range of God’s watchful eye, who’d killed him. Tim Rhodes’ mother didn’t say a word the entire interview.

When they left Dean had to linger by the porch by the trash waiting to be picked up to thank the Rhodes for seeing them because Sam had walked straight to the car, too angry to speak.

“Shit. Those poor kids,” Dean said and he looked at Sam for something, but Sam was staring out the window, eyes full of angry tears. If they had been speaking, Dean would have reached for Sam’s hand, would’ve held him close, would’ve let him cry about it or scream about it or taken him out to shoot something, but they weren’t. Their disgust hung thick in the air between them, shared, but unacknowledged.

When Sam was newly sixteen they squatted in an abandoned apartment in a complex on the bad side of town. A group of boy from the complex had chased Sam down, cat-called to him, “Fucking freak,” “Little faggot,” “C’mere, bitch, how ‘bout you get down on all fours and suck me?” and even though Sam could’ve killed each and every one of them with his bare hands without breaking a sweat he let them catch up to him and break his wrist and kick his ribs in.

Dean had called Sam “bitch” since he’d found out. It was his way of gauging the damage, of changing the slur into something positive, making it a pet name instead of a point of shame as best he could.

Now Sam scoffed, now Sam retorted with “jerk” quick as anything, but they both knew that it was an injury that would never fully heal, still open under the teasing, under the laughter. Because no matter how right this thing was between them, a part of Sam would always believe that those shitheads from Bumfuck, Nowhere were right about him.

The Addams’ house was just down the street, around a wide bend in the road. It was whitewashed with a blue door, innocuous, though both of them had to fight the urge to take each other’s hands and squeeze and they came up the walk.

Mrs. Addams offered them lemonade and sat them on a wicker couch that groaned under their combined weight while they waited for her husband who had just finished up work and was minutes away. Kids ran in and out of the room, scolded gently when they came too close to knocking the lemonade pitcher off the coffee table.

“You’re here about Tim and Keith, I know, but I’m not sure I can be of help. I’ve told the police everything I can think of.”

Sam was still shaking mad--couldn’t even pick up his lemonade--so Dean took the lead.

“Just routine questions, m’am. Did you notice anything unusual about Keith’s behavior before his death?”

“No, not really. I mean, they were both so excited, which was a good look for the both of them--they were in the midst of planning their wedding, you know? In the spring--but they came and went just about as usual. They’ve been a great help around the house; they’ve watched the little ones for us every Friday since Tim moved in to give me ‘n’ Mr. Addams a little respite.”

“Tim was living with you?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Addams took a long sip of her lemonade and smacked her lips. “Last year--when they came out, you know?--well, the Rhodes have never been the most . . .”

“Tolerant?” Sam suggested bitingly.

“Logical,” she corrected. “They said Keith turned Tim gay and that he couldn’t be their son if he was going to live in sin with another man. Have you met them?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Well, then you know what I mean. Bless their hearts, there’s not a good brain between the two of them. Anyone could see the boys were good for each other. I’ve never seen them happier and we’ve lived just down from the Rhodes since they were toddlers.”

Dean glanced at Sam and, for once, Sam was looking back.

“Mrs. Addams, the police have ruled Keith and Tim’s deaths suicides, do you think-”

“I think the police, for all their badges and cars, couldn’t understand a person different than them if their lives depended on it, agents.”

“So you disagree?” Sam prompted.

“Those boys did not kill themselves, Agent Hillman. Sure, they had worries, just like anybody--you know, they thought they might have to change the wedding date, told me something was off about the timing, unlucky or something--but they were happy.”

“Thank you, m’am, you’ve been a great help.”

Sam and Dean bowed out, turning down the gracious offer to wait for Mr. Addams’ arrival and join the family for supper.

They drove back to the motel in silence.

They took shifts in the motel shower, sleeping in two hour bouts, studying the pictures in the files.

They didn’t touch. They didn’t speak.

Dean called out for pizza when he got hungry and, even though he knew Sam’s pizza preferences better than his own, he didn’t order anything for Sam. Sam walked to a quaint Thai restaurant down the street. Usually he would have complained that Dean had left his empty pizza box on a bed, but for once Dean had left it on his own bed so Sam ignored it.

They passed files between the queen beds without acknowledging each other’s presence.

The click of laptop keys as Sam compared the symbols--apparently carved into the victims’ foreheads and then filled with ink--with known sigils and the whir of the ancient radiator in the corner were deafening.

But, as always happened when silence fell between them, there came a point where they forgot or got confused or irritated enough with a case to ask for the other’s input. This time, by the time Sam was frustrated enough with his comparison to ask for Dean’s opinion, Dean had forgotten that he wasn’t supposed to be talking to Sam. Again.

“I can’t find this fucking sigil anywhere--it’s not a known rune, it doesn’t show up in any witchcraft symbology that I can find,” Sam brandished the photograph in Dean’s general direction.

Dean glanced up from his collection of the Rhodes-Addams crime scene pictures wherein the boys lay side by side, holding hands, a different symbol etched into each forehead. He squinted at the picture in Sam’s hands. His eyes widened.

“That’s not a sigil--it’s Cancer.”

Sam eyed him like he’d lost his, arguably apt to roll away, marbles. “Pretty sure you can’t give someone cancer with a scalpel and ink, Dean.”

Dean swung his legs off the bed, leaning close, closer than he’d intentionally been since El Paso. “No, I mean, it’s a zodiac sign.”

Sam glanced at the picture again then back at Dean, eyebrows raised. “How do you know that?”

“Dated this chick once,”

Sam’s expression turned incredulous.

“Okay, fucked this chick once,” Dean amended. “Totally nutballs. She came to the conclusion that we would never work because we were ‘too different.’ Apparently Aquarius and Cancer are only barely compatible. Didn’t stop us from fucking a couple more times before we left town--she said she wasn’t a ‘fully actualized Cancer’ which made her prone to clinginess,”

Dean shrugged.

“Passing over your hitherto unknown, and frankly inexplicable, knowledge of astrological compatibility,”

Dean opened his mouth to protest that his knowledge came through the only acceptable channel for such girly trivia--conquest--but Sam continued, “Are any of the others zodiac signs?”

Dean shuffled the pictures in his lap. “I dunno, man, they look as much like random squiggles to me as they do to you.”

The silence pulled taut between them as they each stared down at their collection of photographs and snapped when Dean mused, “You know what these look like?”

“What?”

“Tattoos.”

Sam resumed Bitchface 174--the “Dean, you’re nuts.”

“Remember those idiot kids in California who tattooed themselves at a bonfire? Maybe you wouldn’t, you were only, what? Eleven? They cut themselves and poured ballpoint ink into it. Kid who was doing it wanted to give me a dragon right here,” Dean rubbed his right forearm.

He had a scar there now, right where the kid had pressed his drawing to Dean’s skin. Nasty poltergeist with a tendency to hurl cutlery through the air; happened later the same year.

“Don’t tell me you almost let him do it.”

“Thought about it. Tattoos are cool.”

“How old were you? Fifteen?”

Dean ignored him.

“Dude’s drawing was terrible, though. Looked a lot like this,” Dean held up another picture. The victim had two parallel zigzag lines cut into her forehead. “That’s an Aquarius, I think, and this one,” he pointed to one of teenage boy’s heads. “That’s you. Taurus.”

“The bull. Stubborn, loyal, tactile.”

Dean looked nothing short of thunderstruck.

“Fucked a girl once,” Sam shrugged. “Got weird though: she wanted to wear a matador outfit and wave a red sheet at me.”

“You always did know how to pick them,” The statement was almost a question, Dean clearly trying to process the fact that Sam had also come by his knowledge of girly trivia via the proper channels.

“I’m kidding, Dean,” Sam looked concerned that Dean, apparently, had believed him. “I just googled it.”

“God, Sam, that’s too weird--the first story you come up with is animal roleplay? That’s just sick.”

“C’mon, Dean, I’ve walked in on you fucking a girl in a bridle and wearing assless chaps. It’s not _my_ fucked up fetish,”

“That was one goddamn time,”

And, just like that, things were back to normal. Or as normal as they ever were.

They stayed up late, matching up all the symbols to zodiac signs, divvying up victims’ families for interviews the next day, drinking beer and speculating on what would leave astrological signs on the foreheads of corpses and no other evidence. Dean stuck with his cult theory while Sam argued that the case had pagan god written all over it. And when they got hungry late in the night, Dean went to the nearest gas station and came back with more beer and box macaroni and cheese that he made on the room’s hot plate.

The first time they ever talked about sex there had been macaroni and cheese and a hot plate.

John was on a hunt; Dean was pissed at being confined to the motel room with his kid brother; Sam was on the cusp of being thirteen--curious and gangly.

Sam had asked for mac’n’cheese specifically. Said he was starving.

Dean didn’t remember if they had even been talking before Sam’s question. If they had been, it didn’t really matter what about. It just mattered that over mac’n’cheese Sam had looked over at Dean, fork halfway to his mouth, and asked conversationally, “Have you ever fucked someone?”

Dean had coughed and spluttered and finished off the last inch in the milk jug in an attempt to clear his throat.

“Goddamn, Sam, where’d you even learn that word?”

“School.”

“Don’t let Dad hear you using language like that.”

Sam idly pushed the macaroni around the edges of his bowl, spearing it in little clumps, but not eating. “So have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Fucked someone.”

Dean took another bite—too big to swallow without nearly killing himself—and looked away from Sam’s earnest eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I have.”

Why shouldn’t Sam know? He was almost as old as Dean was the first time he kissed a girl; it would only be a couple years before Sam was older than Dean was his first time, a month after his stay at Sonny’s, in the back of the girl’s dad’s pickup. She had cried. Dean hadn’t remembered her name then and he certainly didn’t remember her name now.

Dean chanced a glance in Sam’s direction, gauging his reaction, bracing himself to explain all that entailed, but Sam just nodded.

“Why?” Dean asked, suddenly terrified that Sam’s first had already happened, that he’d fumbled his duty as a big brother to make sure Sam remembered his first partner’s name and at least made it to a bed. “Have you?”

Sam shook his head. Dean had to hold back a sigh of relief.

A few tense minutes passed, neither of them actually eating and both of them pretending to.

“Has anyone . . .” Sam swallowed. His hands were shaking visibly. “Have you ever been fucked?”

Dean slapped Sam across the mouth so hard, so fast that he didn’t, couldn’t breathe until after. “Jesus Christ, Sam!”

Sam’s lower lip trembled—handprint vivid across his mouth, little split in his lip, eyes bright and full with tears—but he was gone, locked in the motel bathroom, before he started crying.

Dean had never hit Sam before that. Banged his head on the ground too hard while sparring, yeah; caught Sam in the eye with the butt of a shotgun on accident and given Sam a huge shiner, twice; pinched, punched, kicked, and noogied Sam while roughhousing, sure, but Dean had never hit Sam. Not like that.

Sam had said he was starving, but he hadn't come back for his mostly full bowl, left it for Dean to scoop into the trash when it got cold, left the dishes for Dean to do alone.

Sam was too involved with the case to notice if Dean got a little quiet as they ate, if Dean watched him push his mac’n’cheese around with his fork, if Dean didn’t tease him for using a fork for food that was obviously made to be consumed with spoons.

But Dean did get quiet, Dean didn’t really eat, and he frowned just a little when he looked at Sam’s fork. He washed the bowls right after they finished, like he never did, because he couldn’t bear to see them sitting there on the table, coated with congealed cheese sauce.

When Dean opened the bathroom door, Sam flinched.

Dean waited. Sam was curled up by the toilet like maybe he’d been sick. He waited, but Sam didn’t move and Dean knew he had to ask. There had to be a reason Sam had asked.

“Sammy? Have you . . . Has anyone fucked you?”

“I didn’t know it was bad,”

Dean remembered feeling cold with the fear of what Sam was about to tell him or, worse, hide from him. Like when John was too drunk to drive any farther and they stopped on the side of the road so he could sleep while snow piled up around the Impala. “Who?”

“I didn’t know, Dean, he said it was okay.”

“Hey,” Dean touched Sam’s shoulder and Sam flinched harder.

“Sammy, look at me.”

When Sam finally did Dean had to swallow too many times before he could say, “I shouldn’t have—I’m not mad, just . . . surprised.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, Sam, no,”

“But you—and you never—”

“Did he hurt you?”

“He said it wouldn’t hurt, but . . .” Sam’s eyes were so big, like he thought Dean would hit him again. “But it did, so he stopped.”

“Good.”

“I wanted to, but he said it was hurting me too much so he just . . .” Sam’s gaze flicked away from Dean. It was the first time Dean remembered Sam looking embarrassed to tell him something. There had been no embarrassment when Dean offered him a cursory explanation of wet dreams, when Sam misused “twat” and Dean laughed for what felt like an hour, but Sam was ashamed to tell him this and it ached under Dean’s ribs. “He used his hand instead.”

“Don’t tell Dad about this. Okay, Sammy?”

Sam nodded.

Dean stroked Sam’s hair soft. The little split in Sam’s lip--that Dean’d put there--was still bleeding.

Dean never told Sam that after he fell asleep in their shared bed, Dean drove all night, back two states, and found Sam’s partner--Brent or Bryant or something--and knocked him down and knocked a tooth right out and kicked him in the balls until he cried. He never told Sam how he called--Byron, whatever--every name he knew. The bastard was Dean’s age, for fuck’s sake!

Dean never told Sam that Brett told him how Sam had lied. How Sam had said he was fifteen instead of twelve--he was tall enough--and how Sam had come on to him. How Sam had been the one asking, the one pushing. How Sam had begged him to keep going even though it hurt.

Then Dean drove back and pretended he’d been out picking up more spaghetti-o’s.

At the time, Sam thought Dean had picked up a girl. He still thought about that sometimes. It made him feel like shit.

After the macaroni and cheese Dean left. Everything about this fucking case had been building in his head all day, fogging up his vision, itching for a drink.

Sam hardly heard him go, preoccupied with comparing the modus operandi of several monsters who left their victims marked (though, admittedly, not finding any that cut signs into their victims’ foreheads and filled them with ink), but it was only when he’d called it quits for the night in the hopes of getting a solid five hours of sleep that he realized Dean had been gone for nearly three hours.

It wasn’t that weird. Dean’d gone missing without warning probably hundreds of thousands of times and always shown back up with a story that was just passable. But it didn’t usually happen during a case. Almost never, not during a case.

He’d assumed Dean was getting something out of the car, but even if he was bringing in the whole damn arsenal it wouldn’t have taken that long. Sam stuck his head out of the door; the Impala wasn’t in the lot.

Sam wanted to sigh, wanted to rub his eyes and curse Dean to Kentucky and back, but he just walked back to his bed, throwing away Dean’s pizza box on the way.

Too irritated to keep researching, Sam sat down intending to stream a documentary or finish reading up on imported fertility gods (a project he’d started after saving Dean’s ass in Burkittsville), but, damn, he was getting sick of the motel’s wifi. It was slow, unreliable, and he had to sit through an ad every time he opened his browser before he could put in the passcode.

This time when he signed in he had to sit through an altogether too cheery advertisement for a local astrologist--a tiny, dark-haired woman named “AstroZoe,” apparently “the most reliable astrologer in Virginia”--who claimed her methods could change his life. Which, considering the bizarre nature of his life, Sam doubted.

The ad was followed by the day’s horoscopes, complete with illustrations of all the zodiac signs. Of course the ad hadn’t showed up until after they figured out what the sigils were.

He read his first and then Dean’s, just out of curiosity.

His read: ♉ Taurus--Your luck in love is on an upswing! Talk to your partner about your relationship. You may have some things to work out, but don’t let that discourage you. Romance looks bright in the near future as long as you communicate.

Sam laughed out loud and refused to admit how uncomfortably close to home that hit.

Dean’s was even funnier: ♒ Aquarius--Opportunities to advance your relationships may come your way today, but this is not the day to act indiscriminately. Beware of hasty decisions. Your judgement may be a little clouded.

He didn’t tell Dean. Why would he?

But even as he delved into the watering down of Vanir mythology as Germanic and Scandinavian tribes intermarried (no wonder they had been so pissy to be stuck in Indiana--as time went on apparently most of their sacrifices ended up in Odin’s hands instead) the wording of the damn horoscope kept playing at the back of his mind.

They sucked at communicating--Dean especially--and always had. And they weren’t in a relationship--not in that context, anyway--and never had been. Never could be.

Dean made it to the first bar on the highway--flickering neon lights and smoke so heavy it billowed out into the night whenever the door opened--sat down and ordered himself John’s favorite drink and stared determinedly at every set of tits that passed, forcing himself to act interested.

Sam hardly absorbed the history of the Vanir’s assimilation into other fertility mythos. The idea of trying to communicate with Dean, to say the things that had always been unsaid between them--assumed or avoided--out loud in actual words, kept distracting him.

He imagined how it would be to tell Dean why he started applying to colleges right in the middle of their best time, when John had left them to their own hunts and they fucked constantly. He tried to phrase it in his head, how he’d admit that there was an aspect of his motive he’d never told anyone. Muttered under his breath, tried not to drown under the weight of the memory of feeling so helpless and so fucking scared, “Do you remember that news story, it was all over when we were stopped in Ohio--the kid got the maximum penalty for statutory rape even though his partner consented. They were still underage, still four years difference. Just like us. So the kid went to prison.”

Sam closed his eyes before the next words came out. “He died in there, like he was just some pedophile, like taking out the trash, stabbed by another inmate. They didn’t even charge the guy with anything,”

Sam kept his eyes closed like it could help forget how young that kid had been--cheeky grin and big green eyes like Dean--and how tight he’d clung to Dean that night in their shared bed. Tight enough that Dean had teased him, said Sam was making it hard to breathe.

He got up, gritted his teeth to keep the words from stumbling out into the empty, too-cold room, but couldn’t stop the narrative in his head, wondering if Dean would even be capable of understanding if Sam ever told him.

I started having nightmares. I just kept thinking how much worse it would’ve been if they’d been brothers. How much worse things would be for you if we ever got caught. It wouldn’t matter what I wanted--wouldn’t matter that I always wanted you, before I even knew what that meant. It wouldn’t have saved you. If anyone found out . . . I wouldn’t be able to save you. And I . . . I couldn’t lose you.

He sat back on the edge of the bed trying to ignore the completely irrational, childish, superstitious, stupid part of himself that lingered on the phrasing of his fucking horoscope: “Romance looks bright in the near future as long as you communicate.”

Romance. Right.

He laughed until his stomach hurt as much as his chest did, splashed his face with cold water, checked out the door but the lot was empty, and decided not to wait up for Dean.

Dean almost went home with a woman old enough to be John’s sister--he’d long ago stopped comparing anyone, anything to Mary--but when she pressed up against him he had to lean down to kiss her and it was so wrong it made his stomach heave.

He wasn’t going to wait up. But Dean wasn’t back when he got out of the shower. It was late and Dean wasn’t back and Sam’d calmed down in the shower just enough to consider the completely idiotic notion of trying to talk to Dean when he got back from wherever the hell he was so he sat down on the bed and pretended to finish reading about Vanir legend and listened for the Impala’s engine.

By the time it came--nearly an hour later--Sam had reached the midpoint between waking and sleeping and had completely convinced himself that the fucking stars were right and he should talk to Dean, dammit.

When Dean walked in, before he could stop himself, Sam asked, “"Dean, can we talk?"

And then Sam got a good look at him. Got a look at his glazed eyes, his hint of a smile, his unfocused movements. 

"You're drunk."

"You're very perceptive, Sammy,"

Sam frowned, watching Dean. Watching his big brother, his hero, his lover squint like he couldn't see anything clearly, stumble slightly as he toed out of his shoes.

Sam hated watching Dean like this. Hated looking at Dean and seeing John instead.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's expression. "'m only a little drunk, lighten up."

Sam broke, words out of his mouth before he even knew what he was saying, even though it was what he had always said when this happened, "We're on a case, goddammit--barely even started! You need to be present, Dean, I need you to have my back-"

Dean crossed the room like he still had his mostly-sober coordination, like a man who moved with a body awareness born of years of combat training, like a man who could entrance his conquest with his grace and his long eyelashes, like a man who wasn't drunk off his ass. He pressed up against Sam, half-hard, rubbing up for emphasis.

"Still got it where it counts,"

"Don't."

"C'mon, c'mon. Wanna fuck you,"

Sam let Dean bite into his mouth, bowl him onto the bed. Let Dean suck a messy hickey onto his neck, let Dean rut on him too hard. Let Dean hump and scrape, the pressure pinching little jolts of pain where they were connected.

He didn’t bother kissing back, but he let Dean reach into his jeans and grip him too-tight--the touch a shock through his system that had Dean huffing a laugh against his chest. Let Dean scrub a hand down over his balls, hard enough to make him flinch, and shove two fingers against him, nails biting, too dry and too broad to do anything but hurt. Sam let him because, God fucking help him, he missed when Dean could do this sober.

Dean was always possessive. And vocal. Sure, he was usually gentle, always more of a gentleman than expected given the muscle car and cassette collection. The roughness, when he was rough (which was often with them--they liked it better that way), was in his voice, in his words. In the way he ran his fingers through Sam’s hair and told him, “God, Sammy, so pretty when you’re mine. Always been mine. Look at you--like you were fucking made for me.”

If Dean was verbal when sober, he was downright chatty drunk. The words took on more bite, picked up a venom they never carried sober, became: “So damn desperate for it, fucking slut.” Jumbled themselves together into a monologue of profanity and poison.

Dean talked into Sam’s skin, licked, “Need it so fucking bad, don’t you?” into his body, bit, “Yeah, shit, like it like that, need me to fuck you, fill you,” into Sam.

And Sam let him. Closed his eyes like that could turn the man on top of him into the lover Dean had been before Stanford.

Like it could turn “Lookit you beg for it like a fucking whore,” into “So pretty, babe,” and “All fucking mine, don’t spread your legs for anyone but me,” back into “That’s it, sweetheart, God, so good for me.” But it didn’t. Couldn’t.

So Sam opened his eyes and shoved Dean away, held him at arm’s length, and watched the surprise in his glazed eyes. “I don’t want to, Dean,”

In Dean’s current state everything narrowed to possession, to ownership, just like Sam had known it would and Dean demanded, “You got someone else, Sammy?”

And a secret that Sam hadn’t meant to keep slipped out. “No. But I don’t . . . I’m not your property,”

“What’s his name?”

Sam wasn’t sure Dean even knew what he was asking but he was angry and hurt and so drunk that it probably didn’t matter what Sam said now.

“Brady.”

“Stanford?”

Sam nodded, slow. “He introduced me to Jess.”

Dean nodded, faster and faster, backing off the bed, nails scratching in the pull away. “You always did have a thing for dicks with B names, didn’t you?”

Sam froze. “You’re talking about Brian, aren’t you? How do you--I never told you his name!”

“He spilled your little secret, you know, how bad you wanted it, little pain slut, whoring out your ass at fucking twelve,”

“I don’t belong to you, Dean!”

Dean looked at him like Sam had shot him in the nuts. Then he turned and left. Again.

Dean slammed the Impala's door, turned the key in the ignition and realized he was too angry to drive. And probably too drunk.

He let his head fall back, everything a thundercloud of pissed off and aroused and tears in his eyes for no goddamn reason and the image of Sam--red blush all the way down his chest, mouth open, breath hot, eyes closed, hair sticking to his forehead and neck--holding himself for a faceless notDean to enter him and whisper dirty words into his skin like they belonged there. Like he belonged there.

Dean stuck his hand into his half-done jeans and squeezed, trying to focus on the imagined scene between Sam and notDean. How many times had notDean fucked him? Sam could go a helluva few times if you got him going right. Had notDean figured out how much Sam loved to ride cock, hips circling like a fucking belly dancer? Had Sam bit his lip to keep from saying “Dean” like he always did when they had to be quiet, keep fucking quiet, because Dad was right there? Or had Sam arched his back, fucking himself down onto notDean, and come and fouled his mouth with notDean’s name? All breathy like a prayer or shouted like an exorcism: “notDean, notDean! Fuck, notDean!”

Dean scrunched his eyes shut, wringing his stubbornly flaccid cock to the point of agony before fumbling his hand out of his pants to ram it into the steering wheel until his knuckles split.

Sam thought about showering but he knew no amount of water could wash away how angrydirty he felt, how inexplicably guilty he had always felt for every touch, every kiss, every thought that wasn’t Dean.

He stared at the ceiling and asked, “How’s that for communication?”

The first time Sam remembered Dean coming home drunk, he thought Dean was John right up until Dean slunk into their shared bed and stuck his hand up under the hem of Sam’s t-shirt, cold against the flat of his stomach. At the time, Sam didn’t have enough experience to identify the type of alcohol by smell alone (though within a year, he was getting pretty damn good). It just registered that Dean smelled like John, that his movements were loose and sloppy, that Dean was asleep almost before he’d finished murmuring “Goodnight, Samkins,” wet against Sam’s neck.

Dean had never used “Samkins” before. And he had not used it since.

Later, half asleep though no longer bleeding, Dean opened the car door and threw up on the asphalt. He stumbled back to the motel room, boots tracking through the vomit, and fell asleep with his forehead pressed to the cool ceramic of the tub.

Sam didn’t bother trying to rouse Dean. He brushed his teeth and shaved without Dean so much as stirring; he pissed with one foot placed between Dean’s spread legs and resisted any urge he may or may not have had to “trip” before he put on his suit and left to interview the roommate of the most recent victim, Georgia McCullen, a few towns over in Lexington.

The name “Samkins” crawled on Sam’s skin under his Fed suit the entire drive.

The town was all thin, old, rambling one way streets and Civil War era memorabilia on the courthouse lawn. Georgia’s former apartment was tucked away down the end of an alley so narrow it looked as though it might not accommodate Sam’s broad shoulders.

Georgia’s roommate was a petite girl, with a friendly, toothy smile who introduced herself as Lacey Evans, apologized for the height of the doorframe and the state of the apartment, and welcomed Sam inside in a single breath.

Half of Georgia’s things were already packed up to be shipped to her parents in Tacoma. The space where, according to Lacey, Georgia had spent most of her time in the last three years at Washington and Lee University was nearly devoid of any sign that she had ever been there.

“I’ve had to move everything so quickly,” Lacey explained. “I just can’t afford rent on my own--you wouldn’t believe what they charge you to live off campus--it’s been horrible putting her things in boxes, realizing she’s not going to come in any moment and try to give me a biology lesson.”

In his visual sweep of the space, Sam recognized a logo. He picked up the magazine from it’s resting place on a what used to be Georgia’s bedside table; it was turned to an astrological advice column hosted by AstroZoe, a few non consecutive words highlighted in neon pink and yellow.

“Do you want that?” Lacey asked.

“Was this Georgia’s?”

“Oh, yes, I never put much stock in stars, though I’d never let Georgie hear me say that. You can have it. Her parents aren’t paying to ship back any of her books or magazines--I’ll just throw it out.”

Sam sat in the Impala and looked over the column, unwilling to start the forty-five minute drive back to an undoubtedly grumpy and most assuredly hungover Dean.

He’s sort of surprised Dean isn’t pacing the parking lot waiting for him.

Dean definitely thought about pacing the parking lot until Sam got back, but the sun was too bright and his head hurt so he plopped down on Sam’s bed, opened his laptop, suffered through the requisite ad for locally farmed beef, and jerked off to women with enormous (and obviously fake) tits rubbing against each other. It didn’t help his headache or the strange, all too familiar, seething irritation with Sam that he didn’t examine too closely. Ever.

He wiped his hand on Sam’s bedspread and opened the history on the laptop, actually considering deleting the string of porn sites, but the mouse froze over the first of Sam’s attempts to match the symbols.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done it--tried to follow Sam’s thought process, to see things the way they looked to Sam--visited the same sites in the same order, read the same words, and tried to come to the same conclusion, and usually failed.

It was like stargazing with Sam. Even sitting side by side, side to side, on the same cooling hood, looking up at the same sky at practically the same angle, Dean still saw only stars--innumerable, creating shapes across the sky that he could try and measure but never fully grasp--and Sam . . . Sam saw something more than stars up there. And try as he might, Dean’s never seen anything but stars.

Sam was actually pretty close to figuring out that the sigils were the sign of the zodiac when he asked for Dean’s help, though Dean’s sure he didn’t realize it. The last search before Sam googled the traits of Taurus was for symbols occurring in sets of twelve.

“So fucking smart, Sammy,”

It’s in the description of Taurus that Dean’s cyberpath diverges from Sam’s. He can’t stop clicking on links. One link claims it’ll reveal Sam’s financial tendencies (ambitious, but well managed), another Sam’s color (pink, what a girl), several others Sam’s most compatible romantic signs (not Aquarius).

And it’s not that he doesn’t hear the Impala come into the lot or Sam’s key card in the lock, but Dean feels like maybe, just maybe, something on the page will tell him what Sam’s always seen in the night sky.

Sam stands still in the doorway when he comes in. He probably expected Dean to still be passed out in the bathroom (not that Dean would blame him--it’s happened before).

He just said, “You’re up.”

“Did you know your ruling planet is Venus?”

Sam made Bitchface 8--“way to avoid talking about anything that means anything, Dean.”

“‘Venus governs beauty, charm, emotional contacts’--good lord, no wonder you’re such a girl.”

“I talked to Georgia McCullen’s roommate. Nothing unusual before her death--just like the other victims--but, get this-”

“Apparently you’re easily jealous, but you shouldn’t show it: ‘your significant other won’t appreciate that kind of attention.’”

Sam looked like he was literally biting his tongue. “I’m going to change and then I’m leaving,” he tossed a magazine on the bed by Dean (narrowly missing the brand new come stain). “Georgia highlighted parts of her horoscope. Maybe you should figure out why,”

Dean picked up the magazine for something to look at that didn’t include Sam shouldering out of his Fed coat, un-cinching his tie, undoing buttons one by one until he was down to a t-shirt, stepping out of his slacks, adjusting himself in his boxerbriefs, and realized that he recognized the logo at the top of the column.

“Holy shit,”

“What, Dean?” And even only halfway into his jeans Sam was scary as hell when he sounded that irritated.

“This advice column--I’ve seen it before,”

“Since when have you read Dear Abby?”

“It was on top of the trash at the Rhodes’--a couple copies, all turned open to this column,”

Suddenly Sam looked interested. It was a nice break from pissed.

“Are you serious?”

“What if this is the connection?”

“The boys were thinking about postponing their wedding,” Sam murmurred.

“What?”

“Mrs. Addams said Keith and Tim were thinking about moving the wedding date--something about bad luck--what do you want to bet that bad luck was a astrological prediction?”

“Sorry, Rev, we can’t get married today, Mars is in the Seventh House?”

“We need to go talk to AstroZoe.”

“We only know three of the victims went to see her, Sam,” Dean countered. “That’s hardly a flashing neon arrow.”

Sam snatched back the magazine and pointed out the ad at the bottom of the page. “She does personal astrological consultations and, at the very least, she knows more about this Zodiac shit than we do.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean pulled on his shoes. Every motion made his head throb.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice was soft, Dean almost missed it.

He looked up just in time to catch the bottle Sam tossed to him. Aspirin. The uncoated, round kind that you could chew and if the taste didn’t kill you it would cure almost any hangover. It was the second best remedy for hangovers that Dean had ever found.

Neither of them acknowledged, or thought about, or talked about the fact that the number one best remedy for a Dean Winchester hangover always had been, and always would be, a good fuck.

AstroZoe’s office was quaint--one in a row of office complexes that looked like they had built in the midst of the Civil War and only recently refurbished with anything resembling the modern era--but the apparently handpainted hanging sign above the door (declaring the place belonged to “AstroZoe--Your link to the stars!” in hot pink words that floated in a crystal ball) and peeling paint suggested that it was only diehard fans like Georgia McCullen who’d kept the place afloat.

The handwritten sign proclaiming "walk ins welcome" didn’t help disperse that first impression.

A bell rang when they opened the door. Inside the place was shockingly bright--outfitted with new-looking lights and pink carpet, furniture that Dean was pretty sure he recognized from IKEA ads, and a decorative pink crystal chandelier.

“Damn,” Dean let out a low whistle. “Someone’s upgraded.”

“No kidding.”

A bored looking receptionist in pigtails that aged instead of infantilized her came to the front desk.

“Welcome to AstroZoe’s-”

“Oh, that’s how you say it!” Dean nudged Sam with his elbow. “I thought Z-o-e was only Zoe-y with a y on the end,”

“AstroZoe-y, like astrology,” Sam was wearing the original Bitchface--the “Duh, Dean.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

The receptionist watched them in bland silence. “Do you have appointments?”

Dean’s hand strayed to his breast pocket. They’d come in civilian clothes, but if strongarming was their only way to cross this freakshow off their list, they might have to pull rank. He’d stuck his Agent Plant in his plaid just in case.

“No, m’am, we were wondering if Zoe was taking any walk ins today?” Sam had put on his best puppy face and just a hint of one of the worst Southern accents Dean had ever heard.

“AstroZoe has been extremely busy for months,” The receptionist opened her appointment book. Nearly the entire page was covered in client information in pink gel pen.

Dean whistled again. “Yeah, I’d call that extremely busy.”

She slammed the book closed and glared at him. He could tell without looking that Sam was glaring just as hard.

“She had a cancellation today, I will ask if she’s willing to see you. Have a seat.” She vanished again, appointment book tucked under her arm.

The moment the receptionist was out of earshot, Sam whirled on Dean. “Still think it’s just a coincidence that Tim, Keith, and Georgia all had connections to this place?”

“Oh, something hinky is definitely up. Look at this place,”

“We need to get our hands on that appointment book. The first body showed up three months ago--bet you anything that’s when business started picking up in this place. Bet you anything we’ll find all the victim’s names in that book.”

AstroZoe herself was a surprisingly young (couldn’t have been older than thirty) woman with a crooked smile and a too-sweet voice. She took them into her office one at a time.

While Sam was in his “consultation,” Dean flirted his way through the receptionist’s defenses and replaced her appointment book with one of his Vonnegut novels (which Sam was totally replacing, dammit, _Cat's Cradle_  was one of his favorites).

AstroZoe sat him down in a pink armchair so soft it felt like it was trying to swallow him.

“How are you feeling today, Sam?” She sat behind a whitewashed desk, looking too-intently at him.

“Good, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Better every day. Have you ever had a consultation like this before?”

“No,” he admitted truthfully.

“Well, first I’ll ask you some questions. Some of them won’t seem important, but I assure you they are. Please answer them fully and truthfully.”

Though there was very little chance of any Winchester ever doing that, Sam agreed. “Questions? You mean like my birthday?”

She smiled at him like he was adorable. “You’re a Taurus. Within the first week of May, I’m guessing. I meant questions more like: What brought you here? And Dean, what’s your relationship with him?”

“We heard about you through some locals and we were in town,” (That wasn’t a lie, not really). “Dean is my,” Sam meant to say brother but the word twisted in his mouth like it never had before and came out as “partner.”

“Interesting. Your relationship with him seems . . . complex. Has it always been that way?”

Sam’s instinct was to steer the conversation away from such dangerous waters, but he found himself admitting. “It’s always been complicated, but things were definitely easier when we were . . .” (he almost said kids) “younger.”

“You don’t like answering questions, do you? It makes you uncomfortable.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer.

AstroZoe’s smile deepened; she stood and circled her desk to lean against it, grabbing Sam’s hand. “That’s all right, many people are uncomfortable divulging their secrets to a stranger, but it’s all part of the process.”

“Dean’s feelings for you are just as . . . convoluted as yours are for him. You two communicate in two entirely different ways, Sam--Aquarians often make better teammates or business partners for Taureans.”

Sam pulled back. She pushed even closer, brushing a strand of his hair from his forehead.

“Don’t push him too hard, sweetheart, it will only drive him away. You’re both strong, fixed signs. If you both insist on trying to dominate, you’ll always be fighting.”

Sam jerked back, but she followed, doodling a figure on his forehead, over and over.

“Be careful in the next few days. He’s going to seem particularly insensitive, but if you push him it’ll only turn into a fight. I know it can get pretty bad,”

Sam abruptly stood and fumbled for the door. “Thanks, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dean slapped the appointment book into his hands as he passed. Sam flinched.

While Dean was with AstroZoe, Sam pretended to be looking for the bathroom and ran the EMF meter all over the office (nothing).

Then he went out to the car, hands shaking a little, to start matching victims to AstroZoe’s clientele.

His forehead itched where she had touched him.

AstroZoe’s back was turned to Dean when he came in. He forced himself to admire the curve of her ass--it was nice.

“I know things seem bad, Dean, but don’t let your insecurities get the better of you.”

“Excuse me?”

She turned, smile so wide it looked like it hurt. “Sam loves you. So much it’s physically painful for him sometimes, did you know that?”

She looked him over for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think you did.”

Dean watched her, body suddenly on high alert. They had underestimated this frilly, pink crackpot with a smile like a vulture and he’d be damned if he let her get the drop on him.

“Bite your tongue for the next few days, all right? You’ll only make things worse.”

She stalked up to him, eyes never leaving his, smile never faltering, moving like only monsters could. He reached instinctively for his gun, but before he could draw it she was touching his forehead, making a little shape there. Then she turned and walked back to her desk, ignoring him completely.

Georgia’s name was there a half dozen times--the last only a day before he body had been found. The receptionist had noted Georgia’s sign (Gemini) and the topics she had covered with AstroZoe (love, sex, love/compatibility and health, education, and love/compatibility again on her last visit).

Sam couldn’t concentrate. His forehead itched and he just kept thinking about how, yeah, Dean was being a particular dick. Lucky guess, but it didn’t mean she was wrong.

Dean stumbled out of the office, threw some bills on the receptionist’s counter, and went straight to Sam. He was shaky, nervous like he hadn’t been since the last time he’d left Sam in danger and come back not knowing if Sam would still be there.

But there he was, poring over the appointment book in the passenger seat.

Dean sighed and pressed his head against the hot metal of Baby’s roof before he got in. His headache was still hanging on, hanging by a thread, and he tried not to think about what he knew he needed to knock it off the bull.

He smiled at Sam, but Sam didn’t notice because he hardly looked at Dean lately.

“Such a nerd, Sammy.”

He didn’t even look up, completely concentrated on the pink gel pen scrawl.

It hit Sam when they were getting out of the car in the motel lot; he ran in without even closing the car door.

“Gotta pee, Sammy?” Dean called after him.

The magazine was on Sam’s bed where Dean had left it, next to a white stain which Sam was fairly sure had not been there the night before.

As he had thought he remembered, the entire Gemini horoscope (Someone you know, but not very well, poses a threat to you today. You may not even realize what is happening until it is over, but be cautious or you may regret it) was highlighted in yellow, but a few of the words and letters had been highlighted again in pink: the “li” of realize, the “b” in but, the “r” in or, and the “a” in may.

“Libra.”

Dean still wasn’t inside so Sam stuck his head out the door. “Where are the crime scene pictures?”

“On the bedside table, why-”

He didn’t hear the end of Dean’s question, too busy sorting through the pictures until he found Georgia. Tiny and dark skinned, with mousy features and wide open, surprised gray eyes staring up like she was shocked to see the sign cut into her skin.

He had to google it to check--whispering “C’mon, c’mon,” through the Starbucks ad--and hold the picture close to his screen, but there was no doubt about it. The sign on Georgia’s forehead was Libra, not Gemini.

“Dean!”

Dean, who had at some point gone into the bathroom, stuck his head out. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“We have a problem.”

Dean was half-dressed, like he’d planned on taking a shower. “What’s the problem?”

“We’ve been working under the assumption that the victim’s zodiac sign had some significance to their deaths,” he held up Georgia’s picture. “This is the sign for a Libra.”

“And?”

“Georgia was a Gemini.”

It was late into the evening by the time they had confirmed that each of the thirteen victims so far had gone to see AstroZoe shortly before their deaths; that, in fact, they all had consulted with her on love, compatibility, or both in their final session; and that only one of the thirteen had their own sign carved into their forehead.

They both had noticed that they other was touching their forehead a little too often--Dean running his fingers over it like the shape of an old scar, Sam rubbing at it like he was trying to erase an itch--but they were too worried about what that might mean to actually talk about it.

“So,” Sam took a breath, trying to summarize the information they’d gathered. “The real question is if AstroZoe is causing their deaths intentionally or accidentally,”

“Because, holy shit, is she involved. And creepy,” Dean agreed.

“And how? There is nothing in a single one of these autopsy reports that can even suggest the cause of death--one of the MEs even noted that the mutilation was postmortem, so we can't even blame the fucking tattoos.”

“I vote we go see the bitch tomorrow for a little negotiation,the patented John Winchester way,” Dean patted his 9mm like he was an old-school gangster.

“You think she’s doing this intentionally?”

“I think she knows about it. Bitch made my skin crawl,”

“Did anything . . . You know, weird happen in your consultation?” Sam glanced over at Dean, like he was disinterested, but his fingers froze poised above his keys as if holding out for Dean’s answer.

“She come onto you or something?” Dean quipped.

Sam rubbed his forehead and didn’t respond.

“I think she’s using a egregore,” Sam announced.

“A what now?”

“It’s a collective mind. Put simply, the more people believe in a phenomenon the better it actually works,”

“So, the more clients buy in to ‘Zo’’s bullshit, the more accurate she gets, the more people believe, and we’ve entered a vicious cycle of bullshit?”

“Basically,”

“So she could still be killing people on accident--an unexpected side effect?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam looked back down at the computer screen. “Most people who would know how to create and use an egregore are practitioners of chaos magic and while it’s a completely benign branch of magic-”

Dean scoffed.

“To get the collective to expand this quickly--we’re talking what? Three months?--she’s got to be using the deaths to make the egregore stronger.”

“Telling her clients the deaths were the victims fault? Like they didn’t follow a prediction so they dropped dead?”

“Pretty much. That may have something to do with the mismatched signs--maybe she’s freaking out the vics beforehand. Georgia thought she was in danger from a Libra and that’s the sign carved into her skull,”

“Giving her victims a heart attack before they believe themselves to death?”

“Looks like.”

“Perfect. When do we gank this bitch?”

“It’s two in the morning. I think we’ll have to wait until business hours.”

They agreed to sleep in short shifts and Dean insisted Sam take first rest.

After Sam went to sleep, Dean took out the appointment book and looked to see whose cancellation they had picked up. Georgia McCullen’s name was scrawled in the slot.

He let the book slide to the floor between the beds and tried to call John, but didn’t get an answer and didn’t leave a voicemail.

Sam slept soundly that night. Dean didn’t sleep at all; he watched Sam’s breathe evenly and drank himself into something not quite like dozing, yet full of restless dreams where he tried to call out to Sam, to save him, but couldn’t say anything.

When they called in, AstroZoe’s receptionist next informed them that she had an opening in the evening and she’d be happy to pencil them in. Dean wanted to insist that they don their Fed suits and get in a few hours earlier, but Sam convinced him that, on the chance that AstroZoe’s receptionist wasn’t aware that her boss was chaos magicking people to death, it was better not to go in the name of the US government.

Dean was being an ass. He’d called John at least three times while they were waiting out the day, stolen Sam’s laptop and locked himself in the bathroom to jerk off, not to mention the fact that he hadn’t said more than three words to Sam since their argument about whether or not to wear their Fed suits.

Sam wanted Dean to hurt him, didn’t care how. He wanted Dean to care, wanted Dean to hate him, wanted Dean to take him apart--with his cock, with his fist, with words spat out in Sam’s face and drying there--wanted Dean to make him feel like for once in his life he was important. “Good,” “bad,” “normal,” “happy,” “miserable” could go fuck themselves. Sam just wanted to be important.

More important than John--who Dean wouldn’t shut up about--more important than their family calling--the calling that had deprived all of them of any semblance of balance, of belonging, of importance since before Sam had even known it existed--and more important than the ever present alcohol, never more than an arm’s length away, always tainting Dean’s breath and slowly killing him, connecting him on some spiritual plane to John no matter how far away they were and taking him far away from Sam no matter how tightly Sam tried to hold onto him.

So Sam pushed and poked and provoked. He ignored Dean when all Dean would talk about was finding John. He complained about Dean’s food choices, his music, his brashness, his incurable urge to flirt with any female being.

Dean tried to ignore Sam’s temper tantrum without actively following the advice of a nutjob who worked out of a pinker version of IKEA, figuring Sam was still huffy about him getting wasted on a case. Which, if he thought about it, which he didn’t, Sam probably had a right to be pissed about.

Sam could tell Dean was deliberately avoiding conflict--making his jabs into jokes, moving back when Sam got too close--but he was not letting Dean get away that easily. He wiggled his fingers under Dean's skin and pulled and prodded and poked until Dean broke and pushed back.

Dean threw the first punch, blacked Sam’s eye before he could even raise his hands in front of his body. Then Sam was on him, hitting low and hard like he wanted it to fucking hurt, taking Dean to the floor and knocking the air from him again and again until he shoved Sam off of him, using both hands and his knees to pin Sam’s arms down.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Dean’s lip was bleeding a little.

“You,” Sam surged up off the floor--to kiss it better or bite it worse, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter once Dean started kissing back.

Sam clawed at Dean, flipped them so hard Dean’s head hit the thin carpet with a thunk, not letting this become anything but a fight for a single moment, keeping Dean connected, engaged, competitive, making sure he’d fight back.

Dean’d always been one for long, slow touch, making out like teenagers and rubbing off for hours before the clothes ever started coming off, but Sam had gradually learned how to make him take control. Make it into a competition, make it about winning and losing, act like Dean has to convince him, like he isn’t aching for it, and--above all--keep it moving, keep clawing and grabbing, make Dean desperate for a little something more.

Sure enough, it only took one deep, biting hickey on Dean’s neck and clawing the length of Dean’s back beneath his shirts before Dea was pushing Sam over and dragging him to the nearest bed (Dean’s), ordering him to take his fucking clothes off.

Sam complied and Dean just watched, expressionless, tracking down the length of Sam’s body like he did looking at a monster and guessing the best place to stab it. He laid over Sam, body heavy and hard on top of him, rutting the roughness of his jeans against Sam’s bare thigh, then deliberately over his cock, hard enough to hurt.

He hovered like he might kiss Sam--Sam could almost taste the blood from his split lip--but instead he whispered, “You want this, Sammy? Want me to fuck you?”

Sam didn’t answer and Dean ground against him until Sam yelped.

“Want me to bite you, suck you, fuck you until you cry? That what you want, Sammy?”

“Bite me.”

Dean sunk his teeth into the meat of Sam’s shoulder, rubbing up hard against him, tooheavy and not close enough.

“Fuck, Dean, fuck,”

Sam made a grab for Dean’s hair, but Dean caught his wrists and held his hands at his sides. Sam struggled, testing. Dean would have let him get away if he really tried, but, then, he really didn’t have any desire to get away.

Dean tracked his way down Sam’s body--taking a nipple between his sharp incisors and bearing down until Sam was sure he’d drawn blood, dragging his teeth over muscles of Sam’s stomach, biting hard against the line of Sam’s hip bone--and by the time Dean was anywhere near where Sam wanted him to be, Sam’s body was a live wire, painpleasure raising goosebumps on his skin.

Dean shoved Sam’s legs up to his chest, exposing him completely, and even though Dean had released his wrists Sam suddenly felt completely and wonderfully helpless as Dean bit down on the tendon of his inner thigh and his muscles spasmed.

“God, Dean,” Sam was hard against his stomach, dripping precome onto the sensitive places where Dean’s teeth marks were already bruising purple.

Dean ran just the tip of his nose over the skin of Sam’s sac, moving downward, then his teeth scraped Sam’s perineum and Sam almost cried out, scared, to stop him. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Wanted it.

Sam’s entire body flinched away from the bites when they came--nips in quick succession, lower, to the excruciatingly sensitive flesh so near his center--but Dean moved with him, not slowing or letting up, growling filthy things that Sam couldn’t make out into his skin. And when Dean’s teeth grazed the raised edge of his entrance, Sam felt the first hot tears on his cheeks and could have come right then if Dean had so much as touched his cock. But he didn’t.

He pressed his tongue against Sam, into him, letting his teeth drag as he fucked into Sam with his tongue. Sam rocked against him, jumping and shuddering at the sting of Dean’s teeth. When Dean pressed a finger (slick with lube, not that Sam remembered Dean grabbing any) into him, alongside his tongue, Sam tried to push him away--the sensation too much--but Dean swatted away his hands, stabbing into Sam, and reminded him, “This is what you asked me for--gonna fucking give it to you.”

Dean slid his finger out and shoved three back in; Sam bowed off the bed, breath coming in hiccuping sobs. Dean retreated slightly, playing his teeth over the thin, sensitive skin of Sam’s balls, up his shaft, taking Sam’s foreskin very gently between his teeth until Sam was pretty sure he was screaming.

Then Dean pulled out, pulled away, pulled up onto his knees.

“Flip over,”

Sam obeyed and Dean thrust into him (when he’d undone his jeans and slicked up his cock, Sam sure as hell didn’t know), fucking into him in one long thrust.

It was the first time since Sam left for Stanford he realized too late.

Dean fucked him mercilessly, strokes long and hard, the only friction on Sam’s cock what he got when Dean shoved him against the mattress for a better angle, tangling his fingers in Sam’s hair and tightening his grip until Sam was sure he would pull handfuls out, but Sam came anyway.

After, Dean sucked in a breath and rolled away from Sam, to his feet. It struck Sam how very small he was, in spite of all the growth spurts he’d had that had rocketed him past 6’, and he curled up in the rough motel comforter and listened too-closely to the little sounds from the bathroom.

He didn’t cry. There was no reason to. He’d gotten just what he wanted.

When Dean came out he tapped the end of the bed, not even touching Sam, and informed him, that if he’d had enough beautyrest they could get back to ganking monsters.

She was waiting for them when they came in. Perched on her desk like a carrion bird. Smiling. “Why if it isn’t my two favorite hunters. How you boys doing?”

“What gave us away?”

AstroZoe examined her nails. “Locals don’t just walk into my office. They know better.You need an appointment to come see me. And I had Ginny give you every opportunity to steal her appointment book--if you took it, I’d know you were out to cause me trouble. And, honestly, I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along and try to shut me down.”

“Glad we didn’t disappoint. We’re here to shut you down, ‘Zo.’”

“You can try. People have been trying for years. Some people have no vision. Do you know how big this could go? Accurate astrological predictions and advice? I’ll make a fortune.”

“You’re just a big-ass fraud, aren’t you?”

“Was a big-ass fraud, but with every client who believes themselves into nonexistence I’m becoming less of a fraud every day.”

“Don’t you think someone’s going to notice that your biggest fans have a habit of dying?”

“And do what? Investigate me? Do you know how fast a police investigation could get me a book deal? I’d be chatting with Regis and Kelly in a week.”

“You’re killing people so you can be on Regis and Kelly? That’s just sick,”

“Dean,” Dean could tell without looking that Sam was, predictably, sporting Bitchface 23--the “Seriously? That’s what you got out of that?”

“What? She could aim a little higher is all I’m saying--I hear Ellen sometimes interviews the unhinged.”

“All in good time,” AstroZoe was smiling so hard it came through in her voice. “But, first, to dispose of you two,”

“Thought you didn’t like to get your hands dirty. Gonna wish us to death?”

“Don’t have to. I just have to make you believe--I’m well on my way there,”

Dean glanced at Sam and saw in that quick look that Sam was right where he was--right on the cusp of buying this bitch’s shit about the fucking stars having some influence on their lives. Fuck.

“Hard, isn’t it, Sam? When it makes so much sense. You’ve been fighting your whole lives: fighting not to love each other the way you do, then fighting to know how to love each other the way you do. Hard to believe it’s not some cruel celestial scheme--letting you two be born brothers, letting you butt heads, and then shoving you back together just when you’re most vulnerable, when you can’t get away from it. Hardly seems fair.”

“Shut up,” Sam’s teeth were gritted and Dean couldn’t be sure but he thought he saw faint lines appearing on Sam’s forehead.

“And you, Dean, it just fits so well, doesn’t it? Think about everything you’ve learned about the Taurus: Sam just wants stability--it’s always mattered more to him than you, and his promises may as well be wrought iron, he’s stubborn as hell, always pushing for you to reciprocate--to be more demonstrative. It fits just a little too well--right down to his mouth and neck being the most sensitive parts of his body. You’d know that better than anyone, wouldn’t you?”

“Leave his fucking neck out of this,” Dean raised his 9mm and aimed between her eyes.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,”

“Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t.”

“Look how close Sam is to believing me, just look at him. Killing me won’t save him now.”

The lines on Sam’s head were clear now--lines that damn well looked like Aquarius’ star sign.

“Let him go, you bitch!”

“It’s up to Sam now, Dean. Your willingness to sacrifice yourself for his sake isn’t helping much--it’s one of Aquarians’ better traits, you know.” She turned to Sam. “Careful now, Sammy, don’t go believing me. Aquarians hate to be alone,”

Dean felt the shape of lines forming on his forehead. Making the same shape AstroZoe had doodled on his skin. The sign for a Taurus.

“That’s how you’re doing this, isn’t it?” He touched his forehead and his fingers came away inky--the cuts would come postmortem, he was sure.

She whirled toward him. The beginnings of a frown appearing between her eyebrows.

“You coax belief out of your victims by hitting them where they’re weakest--their relationships. If you can get them to focus on how well your mumbo jumbo fits their partner, they’ll forget all the parts that don’t,”

“I’d stop talking if I were you,” she hissed.

“Would you? Is that because Aquarians aren’t very chatty? Or because I might point out my particularly insensitive calves and ankles? Aren’t they supposed to be the most sensitive part of my body? Or, you know, we could talk about Sam’s complete disregard for foreplay, which is very un-Taurean of him?”

“Shut up!”

Behind AstroZoe, Sam picked up the lamp from her desk, silently unplugging it from the wall. The lines were fading. He stepped closer, steps quiet. Sam always had had a gift for stealth, in spite of his gangly limbs.

“We make our own destiny, bitch,”

When Sam hit AstroZoe over the head with the lamp she just looked mildly surprised before she slumped to the floor.

“‘We make our own destiny, bitch?’”

“Fuck off.”

The receptionist eyed them on their way out (AstroZoe’s body safely disposed of out the back). Sam opened his mouth to say something--apologize or explain, something--but she held up a hand.

“I don’t want to know.”

Sam pulled Dean in for a bruising kiss before the motel room door was even fully closed, tugged him over to the bed, threw him down and rode him until Dean was chanting, “Sam, Sammy, God, Sam,” kissed him soundly and went to shower.

And, just like that, things were back to normal. Or as normal as they ever were.

Just like they had never stopped this hunting and fucking and saving each other’s asses thing. Like they were them again.

And, for the first time in what felt like several lifetimes, for a while--Sam under the hot water and Dean relaxed on the bed--they felt exactly the same way.

Somehow Dean had a case before Sam’d even come out of the shower. Rawhead in Nebraska. He was half packed and ready to go as soon as Sam was ready. “As soon as you’re finished perming your hair or whatever it is you do in there.”

Sam had to do it while they were still inside. He knew all about Dean’s internal rules about how this more-than-brothers-while-it’s-dark thing was supposed to work, how it had to work, so Sam grabbed him, tugging him back at the motel door, cupped his cheek and kissed him gentle.

“What was that for?” Sam knew Dean intended to sound petulant, but his glazed eyes belied his tone. Just a little. Just enough.

Sam shook his head, pressed a dry kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, hefted his duffle and walked out to the car.


End file.
